


Old Habits

by PengyChan



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Bittersweet, Flashbacks, Friendship, Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-02-08
Packaged: 2019-10-24 16:09:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17707442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PengyChan/pseuds/PengyChan
Summary: Héctor did not expect to bump into Ernesto when he ran inside his old shack in Shantytown to escape paparazzi.Ernesto did not expect to find himself stuck with Héctor in his hiding place, with the press right outside to boot.But it happened, and it wouldn't be the first time they worm their way out of trouble together.





	Old Habits

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BabyCharmander](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BabyCharmander/gifts).



> This fic was written for BabyCharmander. She asked for something about Héctor running into Ernesto while pursued, making Ernesto face the choice to either help him or not. A lot of the details were left up to me and this is what I came up with - thanks again BC, hope you like it!  
> (And yes, it did end up getting longer than expected. I have no control over my own writing.)
> 
> Also, a huge thanks to Senora_Luna for beta-ing this!

“Señor!”

“Señor Rivera, wait!”

“Just one word!”

_Sorry, hombres, I know how this goes. If I had a word with each of you, I’d be stuck all night._

“Were you visiting a woman, señor?” someone yelled just as Héctor turned a corner, ducked under a line of drying clothes, and kept running. “We saw you with her! Does your wife know?”

… All right, now Héctor was _definitely_ not going back to have a chat. Dealing with the press was a pain in the tailbone, and dealing with paparazzi was _worse._ Good thing that Imelda paid no heed at all to tabloids, although she did occasionally read them for a laugh.

“Well, looks like we’re divorcing. Again,” she’d told him the previous week, looking up from a copy a client had forgotten in the store.

“Oh. Did I leave you for Frida Kahlo again?”

“Apparently, _I_ did.”

“I’m sure she’ll make you happy,” Héctor had muttered. They’d laughed, and the magazine had winded up in the rubbish bin. The same would probably happen to whatever story those guys came up with after he lost them, because he was not going back to give any kind of explanation. It would be twisted into slander anyway, and give away his surprise for Imelda’s birthday.

After the pains he’d taken to find out out her _exact_ measurement to give Ceci without asking suspicious questions, he wouldn’t let a bunch of paparazzi spoil it. They could come up with all the crap they want as long as _that_ stayed a secret for another month.

“Señor Rivera, look!”

There was a sudden flash behind him - a camera, of course - and Héctor rolled his eyes, still running. They would get tired of chasing him sooner or later, he thought... and then he saw his way out as soon as he turned the corner, avoiding to bump into a couple more guys.

A gondola, just about to depart.

Well, he thought, here goes nothing. It always worked, back when he was trying to get away from a guy or two he may or may not have a debt with. Worst that could happen now, he’d miss and shatter every single bone of his body on some street or building down below.

It was still a better option than having to explain paparazzi who was he meeting and why, with a camera shoved in his face. And besides, he could still be lucky and land in water.

“Señor Rive--!”

Héctor didn’t listen: he sprinted, and took the leap just as the gondola began going down the cables. He missed the back of it, but he was able to grab the rail and hand on, letting out a grito of triumph before he glanced back over his shoulder.

“Hah! Sorry hombres, but I’ve got someplace to-- are you _serious_ now??”

Under his stunned gaze, two of the paparazzi - the other three were snapping pictures like mad, and Héctor faintly wondered what kind of story they were going to attach to him hanging onto a gondola - put their cameras around their neck and took off their belts, clearly planning to zip down the cable after him.

They were _persistent,_ Héctor had to give them that... but he _wasn’t_ going to give them was an interview.

Héctor glanced below, saw that the gondola was going over water, and he did what seemed the most obvious thing to do: he grinned, yelled ‘adíos!’, and let himself fall.

* * *

_Splash._

The surface of the water closes above him, drowning out his cry, and Héctor opens his eyes to see the sun shining through the surface. He flails his arms, kicks… then his feet touch the bottom, and he pushes himself up without thinking.

He breaks the surface with a gasp and a cough, blinking water out of his eyes, to hear howling laughter. He stands there - he can stand, after all, water reaches just below his chin - glaring up at Ernesto. He’s sprawled one the flat rock they’d both been standing on only moments earlier, and he’s cackling like mad, holding onto his stomach. “Hahahaha! You look like a drowned rat!”

Héctor pouts. “This isn’t funny,” he protests, only getting a dismissive wave of his hand. Héctor would like to climb up and push him into the water, too, but he knows he can’t win: he’s six and Ernesto is ten, and much bigger and stronger than him.

“I told you the water’s shallow. See, you can stand,” Ernesto grins, and gains himself a scowl.

“And what if I didn’t?” Héctor snaps. The possible answer - _I could have drowned_ \- fills him with too much dread to contemplate. Unaware of his thoughts, his friend is shrugging.

“Then I’d have pulled you out,” he says, and Héctor can believe that; Ernesto is a very good swimmer. The dread in the pit of his stomach fades as Ernesto holds out his hand.

“Come out, hermanito. I’m getting hungry,” he grins. “And I know where to find a snack…”

* * *

_Ay, rayos, I’m going to be so late for dinner._

With a groan, Héctor shook his hat to get rid of at least some water and put it back on his head. It hadn’t been fun, swimming all the way to land… and realizing where he was after pulling himself up on the old wooden dock. A very _familiar_ old wooden dock.

Shantytown was... different, now that everyone had gone to live in Ernesto's empty mansion: empty, silent, eerie. There had always been a sense of impending doom hanging around, as Héctor supposed was normal for a place where people went to wait a second death, but the people in it... they had made it bearable. There had been a sense of kinship, a community of sorts - fires to keep warm, drinks to be had, laughter and jokes. Not that bad, to be honest, but now there was none of it - just the husks of empty shacks, and complete silence. It was… sad.

_“Señor Rivera!”_

_All right, I’ll take the sadness over this._

“Don’t you _ever_ give up??” Héctor blurted out, turning. He’d managed to lose most of them, but there were two paparazzi right past the stone arch leading to Shantytown, holding up their cameras and snapping pictures. Héctor couldn’t even begin to imagine how they’d tracked him down; he’d dealt with loan sharks who were less persistent than that.

“What are you doing here, señor? Is it connected to your old dealings? Have you not turned over to a new leaf?” one of the guys was yelling, running towards him, and Héctor rolled his eyes before turning to run - again. He knew the place better than they did, and he had a good head start. Soon enough he was hidden from sight among old shacks, and headed straight for the one he used to live in. He’d lock himself in there, at least for now, and think of something.

Héctor threw the door open, ran in, and slammed it shut. He was about to reach for furniture to block it when a sudden gasp caused him to wince, turn… and then freeze, his mind blank.

Sitting on the ratty mattress in the corner, clad in an threadbare black coat and staring back at him with the wide-eyed gaze of a rabbit caught in the headlights, was Ernesto.

* * *

“Come on, don’t be a rabbit! I’ll give you boost - it’s not like the fence got any higher, you know!”

“It’s not the fence!” Héctor protests. Really, how much of a scaredy cat does Ernesto think he is? They have climbed the fence to get in old Rafael’s orchard more times than he can count.  “You know that he got a dog!”

“Hah! So what? Are you scared of some mutt?” Ernesto sneers.

“Well…”

“You are! Ay, you’re such a chicken.”

“S-so what? You’re afraid of cats!”

That hits a nerve, and Ernesto’s face turns red. “Wha-- I not afraid of cats! I just don’t like them. You can’t trust a cat.”

“Says the guy who pushed me in the stream.”

“Fine, fine. Sorry. Stop whining,” Ernesto mutters with a roll of his eyes before folding his hands to form a step. “Come on, climb up.”

Héctor does climb up, and once on top of the fence he’s relieved to see there is no dog in sight. The way Tomás described it, it sounds like old Rafael got himself a hell hound straight from Satan to guard his fruit trees. “What if the dog finds us?” he asks as Ernesto climbs up as well. He’s on the chubby side but still good at climbing.

“Then we’ll just outrun it. Or climb up a tree,” he says, and pokes him in the ribs. “Will you jump, or do I need to throw you down?”

“Don’t!” Héctor exclaims, holding on the fence, but of course he’s not really alarmed. He knows his best friend would never let him fall from that high up, and he doesn’t: Ernesto just laughs before jumping down himself. His landings need some work, but he bounces back like rubber and turns, holding up his arms.

“Come on, jump. I’ve got you.”

And he does jump, of course, because there is no doubt in his mind that Ernesto will catch him.

He always does.

* * *

“What are you _doing_ here?”

Ernesto’s voice came out as a rather undignified screech, but right there and then - on a dusty mattress in a derelict shack, head hurting, just awakened from his drunken stupor by a slamming door to see just about the last person he wished or expected to see - he was several miles past caring how _dignified_ he sounded like.

If anything, it looked like the feeling was entirely mutual. Héctor stared down at him with wide eyes, opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. Had he been any less terrified - _their alebrije, was it there, too?_ \- Ernesto may have sneered something about looking like a fish out of water. When Héctor finally spoke, his own voice was shrill.

“What am I-- this is _my_ place!”

Ernesto blinked. “... What, do you want it back?”

“Yes! I mean, no! I mean--” he wildly gestured at their dark, damp, depressing surroundings. “What are _you_ doing here?”

Several responses came to Ernesto’s mind, from a slew of insults to ‘I asked first’, but he was still too stunned to say any of it. _Maybe I drank too much and am dreaming this up,_ he thought, his eyes shifting to the empty bottle on the ground before turning back to Héctor.

“Hiding?” he finally replied. Héctor blinked.

“Ah. That… makes sense. The police is looking for you.”

 _And now I have been found,_ Ernesto thought. The idea should have terrified him, but instead he just felt so, _so_ empty. Maybe it was alcohol, or exhaustion, but the idea of trying to somehow fight his way out of that made him feel nauseous. Hell, maybe a jail cell would have an actual bed.

“Who else is here?”

“Who else-- ah.” Héctor reached to rub the back of his neck, seemingly as unsure as him as to how to handle the situation. Ernesto supposed it was an improvement from being unceremoniously tackled on the ground, but the thought it put in his mind - _I am_ _too pathetic to even bother kicking_ \- stung more than that. “No one.”

“... No one?”

“No.”

“No police?”

“No.”

“Giant alebrije?”

“No.”

“Bloodthirsty wife?”

“She is not--” Héctor began, only to pause when Ernesto raised both browridges. Eventually he shrugged, as though to concede the point. “... Not here.”

“You’re alone.”

“Yes,” Héctor replied, only to suddenly shut his mouth and stiffen - clearly realizing, a few moments too late, that telling _that_ to a man on the run and with excellent reasons to break a few of his bones was probably not a smart decision. Not quite up there with deciding to drop everything they had worked for because he apparently couldn’t stay without his damn wife and brat for a few more weeks, or accepting one especially stiff drink from him, but close enough.

Except that Ernesto’s head hurt, he was tired and hungover, and it wasn’t like he could kill him. Worst thing, he could maybe managed to break a bone or two. Maybe he’d even be overpowered; Héctor looked much better than he had last time he’d seen him. No, he would just wait for him to leave, because he’d have to leave, and then he’d run off… somewhere else.

Never mind he had no idea where _else_ he could possibly hide without being seen.

Unaware of his thoughts, Héctor was scowling. “But people _know_ I am here,” he declared, crossing his arms. Ernesto scoffed.

“Sure,” he muttered, reaching for the bottle on the floor on his right. He shook it, and found it empty. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“No, really. I’ve got paparazzi at my heels.”

That caused Ernesto to stiffen, the empty bottle falling from his hand. “You-- what?”

“I was running away from paparazzi, and--”

“You brought the _press_ here?” Ernesto blurted out, gaining himself a raised browridge.

“... I take it you’re no longer in the mood to pose for pictures?”

All right, so maybe he _would_ try killing him again after all. Ernesto stood suddenly with a snarl, quickly regretted it when he stumbled forward - tequila did _not_ do wonders for balance - and leaned against a wall. “I hate you,” he informed him instead, eyes shut.

He heard a scoff. “And here I thought you could _never_ hate me,” Héctor snapped, and Ernesto shook his head, fighting back a sudden, absurd urge to defend himself.

 _It wasn’t a lie. I didn’t. You left me no choice, got in the way. I wished you hadn’t, but you did and why, damn you,_ why _did you choose them?_

“I--” he began, only to trail off when a voice reached him through the tin wall, much too close for comfort.

“Señor Rivera! Why are you running?” someone was calling out. It was a good question, really - why run from the press? Everyone adored him now, the adoration that had once been reserved to Ernesto. The thought stung just as Héctor groaned and pushed an old table in front of the shack’s door.

“Oh no, I’m not dealing with this,” he muttered. Ernesto glanced at the empty bottle again. He could pick it up, and hit hard enough to knock his head off his neck, and possibly fracture the skull. It would keep him down for a while, and let the paparazzi find him like that while he slipped awa--

The door handle rattled suddenly as someone tried to open it from outside. The table moved, just a little; it clearly would keep no one out for long. Ernesto was pretty relieved he’d thought of boarding up the windows before moving in.

“Señor? Are you in here?”

Héctor stepped away from the door, then turned to him, looking suddenly lost. The entire situation was ridiculous and somewhat surreal, but something about that look struck him - because in so much senselessness, that was a familiar sight.

He had seen that look on his face before, several times.

* * *

_“Woof! Woof!”_

The moment a dog’s barking reaches their ears, Ernesto finds himself mildly impressed by Héctor’s leap: he seems to jump five feet up in the air before he turns, pale as ash and eyes wide. He looks so lost, and he immediately turns to him for reassurance, guidance, help. Of course he does; that’s what big brothers are for.

And Ernesto is there to do his duty. “Up the tree,” he exclaims, and climbs up fast, safe in the certainty his friend is following suit… except that he can’t.

“I can’t reach!” Héctor - who to his annoyance will grow taller than him but not just yet - calls out, his voice thin with fright. His hands can’t reach the lowest branch of the orange tree by just an inch - and before Ernesto can tell him to try climbing on the next tree, there is a thundering growl that causes his heart to leap somewhere in his throat.

The dog old Rafael got to guard his orchard is really as big as Tomás said - a shaggy thing that is probably a mixture of several breeds, with gleaming teeth bared in a snarl.

“NETO!” Héctor shrieks, flattening himself against the tree, and it’s the last thing Ernesto will remember clearly. The next few moments are a whirlwind with several things happening almost at once: the dog leaps forward, Héctor shrieks again, Ernesto jumps down on the lowest branch, holding down his hand to grab the collar of his shirt and pull him up.

Next thing he knows, he loses his grip - not on the shirt, but on the tree. The ground rushes up to meet them, knocking all air out of their lungs, but the sting is the last of their worries: the dog comes to loom over them, blocking out the sun, and Ernesto knows they’re in trouble.

* * *

Looking back, much later, Héctor would come to the conclusion that maybe he’d overreacted: he was running away from paparazzi, not from a mob out for his bone marrow. But maybe, after a while, who he was running from did not matter: after decade after decade of bad decisions involving the wrong people something had kicked in, a fight-or-flight instinct that logic couldn’t fight.

A poisoned glass may have been enough to kill him, but habits are much harder to die… especially old ones. So, at a loss, he’d done exactly what he had done so many times when he’d been a gap-toothed brat running amok in Santa Cecilia, the sun no his back and his belly full of stolen apples, suddenly faced with a problem: he’d turned to Ernesto.

For a moment, Ernesto just stared back at him. He seemed confused, as though he’d just seen him sprouting wings. Then there was something - a shift in his expression - and, suddenly, he spoke quickly. “... This way. Quick,” he said, and went to the middle of the room to lift up a trapdoor that opened up on the water below, and that hadn’t been there back when Héctor lived in the shack. “I hope you swim better than you used to.”

“I can try,” Héctor found himself saying, stepping closer. As he lowered himself in the water - as they swam right beneath the dock and then along it, keeping hidden from the paparazzi still trying to get into the shack - Héctor thought again that everything about that evening was surreal. One thing, however, was certain.

Even in the Land of the Dead, old habits plainly _refused_ to die.

* * *

“We’re not dead.”

“Don’t think so.”

“Do you think the dog is broken?”

“... I’m not sure.”

Both Héctor and Ernesto blink, sitting up. Before them, the huge dog sits on its haunches, staring at them in obvious confusion, before tilting its head.

 _Well,_ those eyes seem to say, _why aren’t you running?_

“Er… nice… nice perrito?” Ernesto finally croaks, and holds out a hand in front of the dog’s nose. The dog seems to grin at them with teeth that seemed more than capable to bite off that hand… and then just licks it with one big, slobbery swipe of its tongue. They exchange a stunned look before Ernesto grins. “Hah! It was all for show! It was playing! I knew it!”

“You did not!”

“And you were so scared!”

“So were you! You climbed up a tree and-- and you tried to pull me up, too!” he adds, then pouts. “And you couldn’t do it,” he adds, raising an eyebrow. “Not so strong, huh?”

“Hey! It’s not my fault that you’ve got the heaviest butt this side of Oaxaca!”

“Not true! You’re the one who’s gordo, and--!”

They squabble some more, pet the dog and eat fruit until they feel they could burst. They laugh at their own fear, gloat about their bravery, promise each other to never tell any other kid that the dog is actually completely harmless.

It is a good afternoon, the kind you put aside like a log to burn in winter, for harsher times, but they have no idea: harsher times are still years away. Few years, but may as well be a lifetime. They’re just two boys, happy enough not to realize just _how_ happy they are, having a normal day like many normal days.

* * *

“This was my _weirdest_ night in a while.”

“Good for you.”

Resting against a stone wall, well out of sight from the docks, Héctor allowed himself a long sigh of relief and took off his hat, pouring some water on the ground. Somewhere in the distance, a clock chimed, letting him know he should have been home for dinner something like _forever_ ago. He groaned. “I’m in _so_ much trouble.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am!”

“Which one of us is the wanted man again?”

All right, good point. Héctor cleared his throat, and found that he didn’t really want to dwell on all the _reasons_ why he was a wanted man. He didn’t want to dwell on the reasons why he should throttle him right now. He just… wanted to go home.

“... Heh. Imagine what a scoop they would have had on their hands, if they found us both in there.”

"Hmph. _Sensational: Héctor Rivera found cheating on his wife with none other than Ernesto de la Cruz._ I can just see the titles."

"... Really?"

"You don't seem to understand how tabloids work yet," Ernesto grunted, and looked away. His soaking wet coat clung to him in a way that made it look like he was wearing a plastic garbage bag. He ran a hand through his wet hair. “Just about the last thing I want, being found by anyone. Why do you think I bothered to drag your sorry culo out of there?”

_Hey! It’s not my fault that you’ve got--_

“... The heaviest butt this side of Oaxaca,” Héctor muttered. The sudden stab of nostalgia was bad; the confused look Ernesto gave him was worse. He didn’t _remember._

_Of course he doesn’t, he chose to forget. Swept it all away for songs and fame._

“Never mind.” Héctor said, and stood, fixing his vest. “Those guys will give up and leave eventually. Just stay out of sight until then.”

Ernesto scoffed, still sitting against the wall. “Am I supposed to believe you won’t run to tell _everyone_ where I am?”

“You have my word.”

 _“Why?”_ Ernesto demanded to know. He sounded surprised, and oddly angry.

Héctor said nothing at first, because there was nothing he could say without sounding ridiculous - because he didn’t want to acknowledge the ache in his chest at the sense of déjà-vu he had felt for a moment, like for a brief moment an entire century had been erased as they fell back into old habits. He finished fixing his vest before he spoke, without looking at him.

“... Because we’re done,” he said, and that was it. He walked away without another word, and Ernesto did not call out for him. He headed home without turning back, as he should have done another night one century or so earlier. It didn’t really matter anymore that, at one point, there had been a boy who’d cared for him. He had chosen not to anymore, and a brief moment of familiarity did nothing to erase that.

Habits die hard, but things _change,_ and sometimes beyond repair.


End file.
